Happy New Year, Bitches!

First & foremost, I want to extend peace, blessings, & prayers to all of you reading this. May your higher power be with you as we begin a new season of earthly life. Secondly, if you are reading this, congrats! You've survived another year on this God-forsaken planet, successfully navigating death, despair, poverty, disease (hopefully) & dozens of other misfortunate happenings that plenty of folks have succumbed to. So, no matter how bad things may appear, rejoice in your apparent resilience, & rest assured that, though another person's existence is by no means a measuring stick, there's always someone who's worse off than you. Whether that makes you happy or sad is your call. I'm just here to point shit out & provide commentary. All other assessments are yours to make. No need to thank me, but you are welcome, just in case.


However, I will thank you, for fucking with me. Pause-if that makes you uncomfortable. As I've stated several times, there's no tangible reason for cats & dogs & birds to come & read my words. I appreciate the fact that you deem me worthy of your time. Time, being the most expensive asset in the world, because once it's gone, it's gone, even if you're Marty McFly. When I was a kid, I was adamant on building a time machine, so once I got to a certain age, I could go back in time & do it again. When I grew up, I realized that even if I did that, I'd still grow old, but perhaps I'd be able to warn a youthful Tony Grands about avoidable missteps. Then I remembered some movies I'd seen about flux capacitors & space-time continuums, & my high started coming down, & I was off that. But anyway...


I want to share a few things I've learned this year, if I may. I've learned that the majority of your family has no blood relation to you. I've learned that life is short as hell, & if you're a Black man, over the age of 35, you are middle-aged. I'm creeping up on 34, so, yeah. I've learned that anger is a heavy burden, & forgiveness is an elusive state of mind, & the two cannot occupy the same space simultaneously. I haven't quite learned yet how to make the transition between the two, but I'm working on that. I'll keep you posted.


I've learned that women are easy to please, but men are too stubborn to see it. That one was actually a couple of years in the making, but now I have the solidified happiness to show & share with the world. I've learned that being a good parent is usually the deciding factor in the child's victories & failures. As well, I've learned that being a good parent is a trait that is born from humility, experience & a willingness to step back sometimes & let nature take it's course. I've learned that my parents aren't super heroes, or robots, but rather normal human beings, just like me. & no matter how hard I try, I'll never be a super hero, or robot, either. I've learned that mustard is good on any type of meat. Pause. I've learned that most adult humans can't digest milk, & those that can have a mutated gene. I've learned that A LOT of people don't really read the Bible, they just skim through to the "good" parts. I've learned that "the truth" is dependent on the eye of the beholder, like beauty, but actuality never, ever changes.


I've learned that more people love & respect me, than hate & despise me. I've learned that I love & respect more people than I hate & despise. Actually, I've learned that I really don't hate anyone, & quite possibly never have. Hate is a strong emotion. Stronger than most people can truly fathom. It's just such a fun word to toss around that it's lost it's edge, like "nigga". I've learned how gullible people fall in love over the Internet. Personality is the axis of attraction, even if physical qualities distract us. If one's personality is genuine, assuming they're being true, how could a bond not be formed, even without physical contact? I've learned that you don't have to meet someone in person for them to be a friend. & I've learned that a personal relationship with someone doesn't mean they're your friend, regardless of what they say. "They" always have something to say...


Don't you just love how Black folks love to end any ceremonious event with a shout out? On Court TV, I actually saw a dude rattle off "shout outs" as he was being escorted away for life imprisonment. Roffle mayo. Oh well, he'll think twice before he murders a prostitute again. But anyway, there's far too many cats who supported me over this last year or so, but I love y'all motherfuckers. YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE! Thanks for the support, for believing in me, for the kind words, the intelligent exchanges, the real talks-when necessary, & basically being there for me, as well as giving me a reason to be here for y'all. Really though, I appreciate the appreciation.


Brand new year, brand new bullshit, same old nigga...Happy New Year, Bitches!


[tony's note: keep your goddamned gun(s) in the house tonight...please]

I Can Not Tell A Lie

As a kid, I had the kinda pops that would teach me things in a way that made me want to listen, learn & use that shit in real life. Even if to only be more like him. I guess that's admiration. & I guess I do the same thing to/for my son, because on a regular basis, dude surprises me with the way he handles things. His teacher says he's "very mature", among other positive adjectives. I wish more Black men could experience the fruits of positive, tangible fatherhood.


One of the main things he made sure was planted in my psyche was the importance of honesty. Most kids are told "don't lie!", but my dad went as far as to lead by example. Case in point; I've never, ever in my life believed in "Santa Claus". Never had a reason to. Easter Bunny & Tooth Fairy, same thing. Until I moved out of his house, I stood firm on that value, so much so that, one summer, honesty caused an ass load of headache for my family, including almost jail & death.


Yeah, I got some stories...


It was the summer of 1988, between my 6th grade graduation from 54th Street Elementary & my first year at Orville Wright Junior High. We all know that jump from grade to middle school is one the first big steps towards adulthood. Puberty, a little more freedom, the onset of the teenage years. At this juncture, we begin to realize that the world is our oyster. We may not have the skill to crack that bitch open & have at it's mystic pearl just yet, but we've pulled up a chair to the proverbial table & begun to behold the possibilities.


As if the anticipation of Junior High school wasn't enough, my family & I were also moving that summer, to a bigger apartment. My life was changing right before my eyes. Luckily, I'm the type of lad that can respect the unknown. That shit's exciting, in most cases. The new apartment was roughly a half-mile up the street from the old one, so I wouldn't be moving too far from who & what I knew. That made the transition that much easier to accept. The school bus stop was a block away, & all the small conveniences one could want were in walking distance. Also, I'd already been frequenting these establishments, so it was no surprises. Anyone who knows where Slauson Avenue & Overhill Drive cross, in L.A., knows that, back then, that was a generally "good" area. Funny thing though, two summers after we moved there, a nigga got shot in front of our quadplex over some drugs, stumbled into our alley & bleed to death. That was the first freshly dead body I'd ever see.


[tony's note: real life gunshot wounds are nothing like television ones. & coagulated blood stinks...]


My dad told me he needed my help to make this move go smoothly. No worries. My dad knew he could depend on me, especially since I'd been looking after my little brother since day one. I don't recall my parents ever having a babysitter. So, he tells me what I need to do.


"The gas man is going to the new house in the morning. I need you to let him in."


"Okay."


"But, an adult needs to be there. So I want you to tell them that your mother is next door, & they can g'head on turn it on."


"Okay."


"Are you sure you can do it?"


"Of course, dad."


The next day approaches, & my dad drops me off at the new place on his way to work. My mom had already left for work. My brother & I were latch-key kids anyway, so I had no problem chilling alone, waiting for the gas man. Eventually, he arrived & knocked on the screen. I opened the door, hoping he would mistake me for an adult & handle his business. No dice.


"'Sup lil man. Ya mom's here?"


Damn. I didn't want to lie.


"Umm, she said she'll be right back, but to tell you it's cool. You can start now."


"Nah, gotta be someone here over 18 here."


Figured I'd be able to convince him, even pleaded with him. It wasn't happening. He said sorry & headed back to his truck. Now, in my mind, I knew I was in trouble. Trouble for NOT lying. What kinda shit is that? When I did finally talk to my dad, he was pissed. But, oh well. Back then, I didn't know that we had to be out of the old spot by the end of that day. Hey, I'm a kid. He should've taken off work, instead of asking me to do his dirty work, as if bills & rent pay themselves.


Our furniture was already in the new place, so at least we had that going for us. By the end of the day, we were completely moved in, sans heat & hot water. My dad, who's a mail carrier, needed a shower after work. Me, being a boy going through puberty, needed one also. We still had the keys to the old spot, so him & I went there to clean ourselves. After a five minute ride, & him telling me that all-in-all, I didn't do anything wrong, we arrived. You know how when you live somewhere for a long time, you become acquainted with the logistics of the street. Volume of people walking, amount of cars passing, etc. Two dudes were walking down the street, which was slightly unusual for that time of evening. Of course, I noticed them. We pulled up & I got out first, looking at the dudes who to me, looked like Ed Lover & Dr. Dre. That's old school, youngsters. My dad got out & before I could look at him, I heard a loud, shaky voice.


"Gimme those keys, man!"


What the fuck? Was he joking? Nah, not at all. He repeated his sentence, as he pulled what looked like a .38 out of his pocket. Now, the slo-mo kicks in. I'm assessing the situation. These bum ass niggas were robbing my dad at gunpoint.


"Run, Anthony!"


I was also taught that my dad shouldn't have to repeat himself to me. So, I bolted. I ran around the corner, crying, mortified, hysterical, to a large complex around the corner. I knew a lot of the kids, but adults, not so much. Instinctively, I looked for lights & open doors to find help. Oh, & I'm screaming "HELP!" the whole time as well. First door slams right in my face. Word? Am I not a crying kid? Next door I saw, fuck that, I opened the screen myself. An older lady pushed me out the house, while I'm trying to tell her my dad might be shot & shit. *SLAM* Now, on top of my fear builds anger. Old ass scary bitches need to live in a retirement village or some shit if they can't hack it in the real world. Maybe they should be living in a church, because real life happens out here.


I had one older homie, who was like the coolest older kid in the area. He lived in that complex. We all called him "Teddy Bear" for whatever reason. All I remember was him coming outta nowhere, picking me up & running me back around the corner to find my dad. Like a football player. When we arrived back on the scene, my dad's car was still there, & our old neighbor's who'd heard the commotion were standing outside. My friend Terra's mom took me inside, while the other adults started walking down the street to find my dad. In a matter of minutes, he came walking up the street, sweaty & out of breath. He said when I ran, he ran the other way, & those scumbags followed. He said he thought he heard a click, then the guys just scattered. I was so relieved, I cried even harder than I had been. The adults milled around, Teddy Bear made sure I was cool, & everybody went back home. My dad & I got in the car, & headed home as well.


Never did get that shower, though.


We got home, & my extremely angry father stopped the car, got out, ran inside, & came right back. Now, he seemed even madder. Still in shock of it all, I just sat there. My dad asked me was I okay, for like the hundredth time, & we left again. We headed back to the old apartment. I assumed we were going to finally take our showers. We got to the spot, & kept driving. I was curious, but I wasn't about to ask my dad where we were going. My question was answered without any words being exchanged.


I looked over, & he had his gun on his lap. What?! My dad had every intention of finding & killing these men. He was looking, ever so intently, in every shadow, nook, cranny & possible hiding spot for at least a mile's distance. I couldn't believe this. I knew he'd carry his piece from time to time, as well as I've seen him attempt to kick people's asses if he felt they were wrong, but this was another level I'd not yet witnessed in my dad. He was cursing to himself, ignoring the fact that his son was a foot & a half away from him. Shit was scary, because I know what he's capable. At least, before he got all sensitive with age & grandfather-y.


Of course, God helped those clowns get away. I think that made him even angrier, because he wouldn't be able to exact his revenge. We got home, & him & my mom got into a big argument. I stopped listening once she started quoting bible scriptures & talking about me being in the car. Fuck that shower, man. We were home, & "safe", & my dad didn't kill or get killed, so I was good. in hindsight, I understand why he took me back out with him. I can't say I wouldn't do the same thing. Men are complex creatures. Threats of violence are usually met with reciprocation, even if at a later date. This was no exception. I know for certain what my father's intentions were when he never contacted the police. Hardbody.


My mom talked to some emergency gas people, & the following day, there was a dude out to turn our gas on. My father & I have NEVER spoken about the situation. Probably never will. I'll never forget that shit, really though.


Some years down the line, I was watching a football game with some friends. I saw this face, & lit up. "Oh shit!" I said, "that's my homie from my old neighborhood." It was Teddy Bear, who's name is Marcellus Wiley, of the San Diego Charges, Buffalo Bills & Dallas Cowboys. He was a big ass kid, so it made sense when I saw him plowing down the oppostition, & I also remembered how fast that nigga scooped me up, & jetted down the street. Up until that point, I'd all but forgotten that attempted robbery even took place. Even a few more years later, I saw Marcellus at a grocery store in Ladera Heights. He remembered me, came over, gave me a hug, & asked about my "crazy ass dad".


So, yeah.

past, present, future...

I remember when rappers were rappers. Nothing more than that. No smoke & mirrors, no ulterior motives, no snake charming [||], no chickanery. They were rappers, plain & simple, through & through. Jump in my Delorean for a moment...


In the mid-late 80's, most rappers looked like drug dealers or break dancers. Or some strange hybrid of the two, ready to toss loose crack rocks into the crowd mid-windmill, at the drop of a crumpled $10 bill. Point is, you could see a rapper, or one who emulated the rapper "culture" from a mile away. The last wave of truck jewelry was inspired by these days, thanks to Biz Markie, Big Daddy Kane & Rakim, to name a few. These guys were easily distinguishable from the forefathers, with the neo-funk, punk-rock space cowboy, post-Disco get ups. & even then, there was something about a Black dude in a technicolor mohawk that still registered as Hip Hop. No confusion.


The 90's brought forth a simpler uniform. Much more carefree; baggy clothes, unkept or braided hair, or a strange marriage of the two (see: ODB), mountain climber or construction boots, preferably manilla yellow, & that was that. & let us night forget the horrible spell of XXXL white t-shirt/nightgowns, that dangled so low beyond the belt line that I've even seen a nigga's knee get caught as he ran. More often than not, rappers of that decade looked like they smelled. Of either too much weed or not enough hygiene. But, it went over good, because there wasn't an incessant need for flash & glamour. They 80's cats took care of that. Now, cats had something to prove, verbally, & what says that more than looking like you didn't give a fuck about much else? HIp Hop was beginning the maturation process, & the music took the forefront. The only people who didn't look like rappers at the time were our parents. Unless your mom was only 13 years older than you, which was sometimes the case.


The 90's saw 80's flash, with a rich nigga twist. Everything had to shine, not just jewelry. & sunglasses were requisite to the get up; the brighter & glossier, the better. Cats went from t-shirts & hoopties on their album covers, to linens & luxury coupes in their videos. Puff Devil Combs played a large part in this transformation, & even had the grimey-as-fuck Lox looking like walking packs of Now & Laters for a brief period. That was before he had sex with their bank accounts. Plenty of heads across the bored blame the "Shiny Suit" era with the downfall of rugged rap music. All of a sudden, everyone was a millionaire, supposedly, so we all dressed accordingly.But even then, you could still separate the rap cats from the normal folk.


Starting in or damn close to the new millennium, something happened. The rapper stopped being "the rapper" & became "the entertainer". The shackles of stereotype had been broken sequentially over the last couple or so decades, & Hip Hop, now the formidable genre of music, was allowed to express freely. Gone were the baggy pants & gaudy jewelry. Individualism sprouted from state to state, & even country to country. It's now hard to tell the difference between a rap cat, an R&B cat, the gangster rapper, the neo-soul poet, etc. The situation then becomes an oxymoron, where as everyone tries so hard to be different, they all look the same. The tattoos, the hairstyles, the bright colors, the lack of shiny jewels, & as it happened with (cream) Puff, this heightened sense of individuality may be taking it's toll on the collective soul that drives rap.


Good or bad, Hip Hop is moving beyond mere "rap music", & our respective attitudes & styles of expression are indicative of that. I'll be getting more in-depth about this as the month progresses.


Where it goes from here is anyone's guess, especially with the decline of the last POPular gangsta rapper left (see: Curtis Jackson). I think dudes don't want to be hard anymore [||]. They just want to be, whatever that may entail. But, no matter how you slice it, it's all Hip Hop, with the same differences, like ice cream at Baskin-Robbins. Regardless of what the label says, it's still ice cream, no? NaS said "hip hop is dead", and we all know that that's not true, but big ups to Nasir for getting niggas back on their p's & q's again, really though.

Giving Thanks

I'm not a big "Happy Holidays" type of guy. First of all, I don't have that many people in my life that I want to spend unnecessary time with, even if it does mean free food & gifts. I just don't consider that an even exchange. When I was stumbling through life drunk, I was the polar opposite. I thought I wanted to see everybody, all the time, & had to be the life of the party/get-together, unknowingly setting myself up to be talked about &/or frowned upon. Now, most times there's an extended-family related holiday, I'll go, find a corner, & nest, like a Wren, until it's time to go back home.


This past Thanksgiving Thursday was no different. My wife, my son & I went to my in-laws for dinner. Instead of nesting in a corner, though, I decided I'd take my boys out to play some basketball, & in the process, wrangled a few extra kids into our outing. I played ball with my sons for about 15 minutes, until I rolled my left ankle, like I do every single time I play basketball. At which point, I decided that sports & Timberlands are horrid bedfellows, & that I'd had enough of shooting over the heads of a couple of 3 foot tall little dudes. So, we meandered over to the playground area.


Once there, the gaggle of children that followed us were all playing in the sand, back flipping off of swings, covering slides with dirt, & a couple of the less coherent ones tried to make & eat dirt sandwiches. Of course I intervened, although that went against my inner-douche nozzle telling me to video it & upload their humorous antics to YouTube. No dice, though. Maybe next year.


My niece, who's quite the little ray of sunlight, stood atop the slide & proclaimed, "Today is the Lord's day!". All the kids laughed & went back to whatever they were doing. As we should all know, rays of sunshine generally refuse to be ignored, so she made the declaration again.


"Today is the Lord's day!"


Now, my youngest son decided to engage, & he responded, "No, everyday is the Lord's day." My niece then felt the burning 7 year old desire to school an ignorant 6 year old on what the Lord & Thanksgiving have to do with one another. By now, all of the children were pulled into this meeting of the minds, I guess because even swinging gets a bit mundane after an hour. My niece, bless her little heart & adorable intentions, wasn't prepared for what my son was about to lay out in front of her.


Children are like sponges. They soak up the good, as well as the bad. The bad, however, becomes more apparent usually, because we live in a society that readily emphasizes negative behavior, & rarely rewards the positive. The positive behavior is generally exhibited in such a fleeting manner that we don't get the opportunity to stop & deliver the necessary kudos, pats on the back, etc. Lucky for me, I wasn't doing shit else but watching kids be kids.


My youngest son, decided it was time for his cousin to be educated. He's a nozzle like that sometimes, but in a good way. He explained that Thanksgiving is wrong, & that we didn't eat with the indians & have a good time. He told her, & all the kids listening, that the White man came here & killed the Native Americans, took their land, stole their belongings, gave them disease & destroyed their people. I was flabbergasted. All those talks we've had while walking down the street, who would've thought that he was truly listening, let alone comprehending in a way the would yield results in an otherwise adult conversation. Obviously, he was, & very intently I might add.


Of course, once he'd said all that, he felt that it was only right to dispell the myths of Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, ghosts, monsters, & ended his dissertation with a healthy dose of "there's no Hell, either". At this point, I felt he'd ruined enough pre-adolescent fantasies for one day & stopped him. The day continued on, & my kids & I eventually left without even eating, per my sons deciding they'd had enough "Thanksgiving" for the day. We left my wife there, came home & ate pizza.


I had to explain to my son the dangers of the truth, & when exposing actuality to lesser versed people, that aren't ready to learn, one must be prepared for incredible backlash. I know, I'm supposed to be teaching him not cry, & don't be a tattle tale & what not, but really, how far have those types of crippling theories really gotten "us"? I have verifiable proof that my son knows the difference between fallacy & actuality, & the gumption to let the truth fly if need be. That is integrity for your ass. Now, to maintain that standard I've already set, while successfully guiding him through the maze that is human life. Sounds fun, right?

The Revolution Will Be Broadcasted (& Illegally Downloaded)

I'm young enough to remember when Mtv changed the music game. Word to Dallas Penn, videos already existed before the channel made them the prerequisite for any fledgling musician(s). But what that television station did was provide not only an outlet for groups to realize the physical manifestations of their audio creations, but also to give the fans an opportunity to put human beings to the sounds they enjoyed. Video killed the radio star, indeed.


On a side note, Michael Jackson & John Landis personally changed the video game immediately following. Do your homework if you ain't already knowing.


The music racket had been one-upped, & there was no turning back, like when vinyl pushed 8-track off the proverbial cliff, & pissed on him as he slipped into darkness.


Fast forward a couple of decades, & the World Wide Web did a similar move to the music industry, almost making the CDs, that once made the cassette obsolete, irrelevant. Here we are, faced with a mechanism capable of information transfer at a staggering rate & unimaginable reach. Communicational boundaries were literally erased, as people all across the glorious globe could now be connected with one another with essentially no effort at all. Once mankind truly had a grasp on the Internets full potential, nothing was safe from it's voracious ability. I seriously doubt that anyone could've foreseen the effect the Web would have on the entertainment industry, much less civilization as we knew it. Experts once thought that, with the up rise of the 'Nets, the music & movie companies would fall under, due to the 'Nets sheer strength. In theory, one would be hard pressed not to agree. Any & everything a person could want had become available online.


The 'Net created introverts where there were none previously. Shopping, entertainment, social activity, porn, all available at one's fingertips [||]. But, as the smoke clears, the industry that seems to have sustained the most injury is music. Downloads, file shares, album leaks, all play a part in the customers willingness to abandon physical LP's & opt for digital downloads, illegal or otherwise. & who would ignore such luxury? When I was younger, a trip anywhere required 5-7 CDs (at least!) & my Discman, regardless of my destination. Those of us who took our music seriously back then would even shell out upwards of a hundred bucks for the anti-shock or non-skip models. Now, a little bitty box can adamantly hold the majority of my musical library, with me not so much as setting foot inside of a record store. & if you want to get dry snitch-y about it, without so much as spending a dollar, either. The consumer, being catered to, never stopped to think about the artist, & how our decisions may effect them. Which brings us to today's flailing music market, where yesterdays mega-star is only moderately compensated & easily dismissed, regardless of talent. Not only can anybody "produce" an album, but the playing field has been leveled, & accessibility & visibility aren't the parameters of success any longer. YouTube (& the like) can & will make or break a nigga these days.


Now, thanks to the 'Nets, any music, especially the wack, overrated, unnecessary kind, is available on demand. This has the record industry--especially Hip Hop--in a frenzy. Theoretically, there's no reason to buy music anymore. Albums get preleased(c) before their time, & unless you're Jay-Z, Eminem or Black Eyed Peas, the amount of sales is affected. Although that sounds bad, it's actually not. With all music being basically free, we, the fans/consumers are able to sample what's out there & only focus on what we like.


I don't have to second guess ripping Mos Def's latest offering, right after I sneaked a peek at why even Combat Jack likes Gucci Mane. I can find out what the big deal is with Pac Div just as quickly as I can download (then trash bin) Lil Boosie. Point is, no star shines brighter than the next, unless we decide that. & with the opportunity to sample a little bit of everything on the veritable buffet table, the truly talented will undoubtedly be pushed to the forefront. & once CD's become completely obsolete (which they will--mark my words), the industry will be forced to start from scratch; more skill, less marketing.


While this may have an adverse effect on the amount of wack juice that we get exposed to, it also eliminates the radio-factor & let's the listener be in total control of the audio experience. Honestly, the only times I even think about radio is on holidays, to create a festive atmosphere for whatever the hell it is we're celebrating. I think that we've all concluded how much of a dichotomy the 'Net is. So, why not love it as much as we hate it, like an alcoholic parent.


[tony's note: the same evolution is happening to libraries as well. go figure...]

...Howard Cosell would be proud.

I don't usually drop about sports. Those conversations can be as circular as "who's the best rapper?" or "could Wendy Williams get it doggystyle?". Since I'm a creature of habit, this won't be about sports either, per se. More like sportscasters.


I'm a Lakers fanatic, so no broadcaster will ever touch the microphone of the late, great Chick Hearns. My man had more one-liners than Jay-Z. Following the vein of a true Lake Show supporter, I hate the Clippers. Always have. When they moved to Staples Center, I laughed at them, & hoped that somehow, Mike Dunleavy would have to drop a log in the same stall that Phil Jackson just pissed in, without bothering to lift the toilet seat. What was I thinking? The soft-ass Clippers probably use those paper butt guards when they squat. The Lakers, on the other hand, just shit on the competition.


See what I just did there?...


The best thing about the few Clips games I've watched has always been the announcers, Ralph Lawler & Michael Smith. They really appear to enjoy their jobs, with witless banter & personal conversation like two niggas waiting to be called at the Family Court building. I mean, neither of these guys are as incoherent as Stu Nahan, but entertaining nonetheless. Sportscasting has to be one of those "approach with caution" professions, because all you do is talk about what's going on to whoever's listening. Cats smoke weed & get drunk & do the same thing all weekend long, for free. & I know for a fact that I make off-color remarks all the time (like when Howard Cosell said "look at that monkey run" about a Black running back), so why would these dudes be any different? Plus, there's a 50% chance that one of them drinks heavily, word to John Madden. I'm surprised they're just now getting in trouble. I wouldn't have lasted a full season, especially in major league baseball. Eventually, the league would've grown weary of my "how many Dominicans does it take to..." jokes, & like that, I'd be narrating cat food commercials.


Ralph & Michael received a one game suspension during a game versus the Memphis Grizzlies last week. It probably wouldn't have gotten noticed if it wasn't for some douche nozzle viewer who emailed Fox Sports Network to voice their displeasure of the conversation. How much do you want to bet that it was some 50-something year old white lady, who calls midgets "little people" because it's PC? Fuck all that, they're
midgets. So, Grizzlies player Hamed Haddadi entered the game off the bench, & the two classy gentlemen did what two bros watching a basketball game would naturally do--talk to each other about it:


Smith: "Look who's in."


Lawler: "Hamed Haddadi. Where's he from?"


Smith: "He's the first Iranian to play in the NBA." (Smith pronounced Iranian as "Eye-Ray-Knee-In.")


Lawler: "There aren't any Iranian players in the NBA." (repeating Smith's pronunciation.)


Smith: "He's the only one."


Lawler: "He's from Iran?"


Smith: "I guess so."


Lawler: "THAT Iran?"


Smith: "Yes."


Lawler: "The REAL Iran?"


Smith: "Yes."


Lawler: "Wow. Haddadi, that's H-A-D-D-A-D-I."


Smith: "You're sure it's not Borat's older brother?"


*pause*


Smith: "If they ever make a movie about Haddadi, I'm going to get Sacha Baron Cohen to play the part."


Lawler: "Here's Haddadi. Nice little back-door pass. I guess those Iranians can pass the ball."


Smith: "Especially the post players."


Lawler: "I don't know about their guards."


If you're anything like me, that shit was funny, especially when Lawler spelled Hamed's last name out, as if Homeland Security needs to be notified that the dude was here, in case there were pipe bombs in his locker. For all the, umm, greatness that America has achieved throughout the years, we sure can be some whiny ass babies. Whoever sent that email is surely an asshole. & what's worse is that FSN could've emailed her back a cordial "Blow us, sperm bucket!", & thanked her for her concern. Hell, I should've sent them an email that said, "ROFLMMFBAO!", but I was too busy laughing out loud.


We clearly need to get over playing poker with race cards all the time, & learn how to laugh when shit is funny. That shit was funny, & Howard Cosell would be proud.

Here's a little story...

TI is getting out of prison pretty soon. I'll admit, his story really intrigues me, & I just had a somewhat random thought. When his trial began, all the talk was about how he was a snitch, & a punk, & he must've cooperated with the police & the feds to get his sentenced reduced, blah blah. Never, not once, ever, did I hear anybody give him propers for having the balls to live out his lyrics. He had every intention of buying guns & bulletproof armor & silencers for the sake of going to war, with revenge on his mind. C'mon, that's gangsta! Granted, he never got the chance to carry-out his plan(s), but that was because his bodyguard was the snitch. He didn't go to jail behind riding around with a pistol just because, or getting caught with a misdemeanor amount of drugs; dude was getting ready to go out in a blaze of glory, word to Bishop. Not that I hand out kudos for ignorance, but if I were to do so, I'd call Cliff to the front of the line. Unlike 50 Cent & Tupac, who's street credit card was swiped in the victim lane, TI just happened to get infiltrated before he could make someone else the victim. Maybe he'll give us a song about it when he gets out. We know how much Hip Hop loves a rehabilitated convict with a story to tell...


Rappers going to jail is nothing new. But, when they go to jail for real shit, that makes all the difference in a career. Sometimes, it even destroys said career, & the artist's life in the process.


Almost 10 years back, I rapped with a dude named Regino, in a group called 'Tha Most'*. We did a little damage out here, hooked up with some cats called 'Kali's Finest'*, who were running around the L.A. underground gangsta rap circuit turning a few heads here & there. They had a guy in their ("our") clique, named Big Lurch*. Dude was a Texas nigga, pre-chopped & screwed & syruped-up Dirty South type cat who had a buzz rapping with a NoCal group called 'RBL Posse'*. KF Klik's studio was located in the heart of the Van Ness Gang's territory, so the majority of cats who came in & out were more or less Bloods, with Lurch being no exception. In fact, it was only a couple of us who didn't at least covertly claim a Blood affiliation. Not that we were Crips either, we just weren't Bloods. But, it was cool though, because it was about the music, & dudes had love for one another, like any crew should.


The big homies Big Gee & Wunder (Kali's Finest) were putting the final touches on their second LP around this time, so their was a lot of collaboration going on between the whole squadron. Regino & myself were slated to do a song with the homie Big Lurch, but between work, kids & police trying to shut down their side hustle *wink wink*, the song never emerged. I wish it had though. One day, I went over to the studio to cop some medication, & in the backyard, going at it like two wolverines, were Big Lurch & the unofficial third member of Tha Most, K-Borne. Lurch was getting served up, bolo's to the nose & jawbones, but that didn't stop him from squabbling. The fight actually stopped when K-Borne took a step back & looked puzzled at Lurch, who was yelling & screaming like a man possessed. K walked back inside, seemingly disgusted with the whole situation, rather than like a man who just beat the monkey piss out of another dude in front of a small crowd. I broke out to drop off my kids, & returned awhile later to find out what was up with the turmoil.


"Grands! You ain't know that nigga be gettin' wet, dog?!"


"Nah. Word?"


I'd always noticed that Lurch was always in his own world, but he never bothered anybody. The times I chilled with him, clowning, sipping some drank or standing in the driveway while I smoked my Newport, he was always a mellow guy. I'm pretty good with my radar, & obviously he flew right under it. After this fight though, I found out that he was indeed a sherm head, & had no problems letting niggas know. All of us blazed, some of us-especially me-were admitted alcoholics, a few dudes stayed off the X pills, but this dude smoked sherm (pcp, angel dust, water) like it was trendy. I'd heard mad stories about sherm stick smokers, thanks to Jay Felony*, various relatives, & of course, from watching 'Cops' since it's inception, but he didn't seem one bit like the type to flip a car over, naked & sweaty [||], while fighting off 6 police officers.


Once Kali's Finest started having personal problems & decided to go their separate ways, the entire crew followed suit. Everybody branched off to do whatever it is that men do once they've given up on a dream deferred. In hindsight, some of the most fun I've had in my life was during the time we were recording, smoking, drinking, playing PS2, doing shows, etc. I really felt like somebody, & even got stopped ot in the city a few times because of a performance the night before. Once in NoHo (North Hollywood), we even signed autographs for some little kids, & shared some positivity with them.


Time passes. One day, there was a rumor floating around the neighborhood that some dude ate his girlfriend. Literally. As per hood gossip, nobody had names or specifics, but they had the general locale of the event & an overview of what happened. & that was basically the extent of the information I'd got; some nigga ate his girlfriend. In a bad way. Supposedly, he was caught walking down Broadway, covered in blood when the police stopped & arrested him. Living in South L.A., you get used to hearing stories about people found dead or getting killed in bizarre ways. This story, however, was a tad more eerie than some anonymous gangster getting set on fire on front of his baby mom's house. Plus, when a rumor hits the neighborhood so intensely, from various sources, than there's enivetably some truth to it. Eventually, the buzz died down, & it was just another urban legend, about a crazy cannibal nigga who may or may not still be roaming the streets, in search of the next nigga to chomp on. Random folks that I knew, who don't live anywhere near me had even caught wind of the story, & knowing I'd lived on this side of Crenshaw, they'd ask me if I knew or heard anything about it. Yet & still, no one ever had a name.


A couple years pass. One night, I'm watching 'Dateline' or 'Newsline' or something to that effect. They preempt a story about a neighborhood that looks vaguely familiar, & the story of a man who killed his friend's girlfriend while he was high on PCP. Commercial break. At this time, I was still smoking weed & drinking like I hated my liver, so, being faded, I was drawn into the premise. When the show came back on, the story went something like this:


Antron Singleton, living in South Los Angeles, had allowed his friend & his friend's girlfriend, Tynesha Ysais, to come live with them during a rough patch. One morning, the friend left the residence & left Ysais at the apartment with Singleton. Reportedly, Antron was high off of PCP, & confronted the young lady in an aggressive manner. She rebuffed him & the situation escalated. What happened next was unclear, but according to the man, he was high, & the young lady was wearing a t-shirt with the 'Tasmainian Devil' on it. The man also said that the cartoon character attempted to attack him & he defended himself by stabbing it. In a strange turn of events, the man admitted that he then began trying to eat the character after he assumed it was dead. Afterwards, he went outside & that's all he remembered until waking up in police custody. The police reported receiving a call from a neighbor, hearing a violent scuffle, & when they arrived, they found a man staggering down the street confused, covered in blood, dazed & hallucinating.


Medical records showed that Antron had undigested human flesh in his stomach.


At the end of the report, they showed the man's face. I jumped up & grabbed my cell.


"Hello?"


"Nigga! That WAS Lurch!!"


"Daaaamn..."


Regino had called me awhile back about the story when he'd first heard about it, & he had heard that it was Big Lurch, but the problem was that no one had seen him in quite some time, so he & I dismissed it. Dude was a little off, but hey, who's not? But that off? Who'da thunkitt? We both watched the remainder of the show in silence, then got off the phone.


That was one of the weirdest moments in my memories.


At the end of the program, Lurch, sitting pathetically bounded by shackles & behind 3 inch thick bulletproof glass, told the viewers that he was sorry for what he'd done. He added that they should stay away from drugs at all costs. He finally got the fame he had been searching for. Too bad it came this way. He received life in prison after being found guilty on all charges.


With all the misogynistic, drug addled gang bangers who live their lives by the sinister soundtrack that some rap music provides, one can only wonder how successful Lurch would be if he put out an album based around that unfortunate circumstance. Sadly, he'd probably do pretty well. That's street cred for your ass.
---------
*-Google if you're that curious

Seinfeld's Law

Remember the last episode of 'Seinfeld', where Jerome, Cosmo, Lainey & George "T-Bone" Costanza were arrested for watching the fat guy get robbed & did nothing but videotape it & make "fat guy" jokes?


[tony's note: yeah, don't front like you've never watched it...]


They were charged with breaking the imaginary "Good Sumaritan Law", which made it illegal to witness a crime without making any attempts to stop it. For the sake of the show, it was a means to an end, signifying the last hurrah for the 'Seinfeld' cast & crew. &, it was funny to see the morbidly obese man squeeze his swollen body from that compact car. Not that morbid obesity is comical, but, you smell my cologne.


Now, to parallel that with reality, a 15 year old student at Richmond High School, in San Francisco, CA was robbed, beaten & raped after the school's Homecoming dance last Saturday. Ironically, she was crowned Homecoming Queen. The West Contra Costa Unified School District has had it's fair amount of controversy lately, with a truancy rate of 69%, & last year's homicide total at 19. Investigations at Richmond High have revealed that only a small number of the school's surveillance cameras are operable & numerous fights on school grounds have been posted on YouTube.


So far, for the reported crime, a 19 year old ex-student & a current 15 year old student &a few more kids have been formally charged, with more arrests undoubtedly to come. Which in essence, sounds about right, but considering the fact that roughly 20 individuals participated makes that horrifying event that much more appalling. Reports say that about half of the participants were witnesses who did nothing to aid the girl, & perhaps some even videotaped it on their cell phones. That's more than likely, given America's voyeuristic approach at life. Eerily though, a very similar situation happened recently in Chicago, IL, to a young man named Derrion Albert, which resulted in his brutal, possibly avoidable murder had someone just stepped in. You may have heard about it. Instead, people either stood around, joined in the barbaric activities & recorded the event for prosperity. Perhaps the one good aspect of the paparazzi mob mentality is that criminals are stupid enough to get caught on tape red handed, some even amplifying their idiocy for the camera man.


We've all been there at least once, where we found ourselves in the midst of something that seemed to be going to far, yet waited on the next person to intervene or hoped it would just go away. Maybe it did go away, it probably didn't, but we see what happened in the cases of this young lady & Derrion Albert. No one said anything, which, at the very least leveled the playing field between witness & perpetrator. & if it didn't, it should have. Otherwise, only prison walls, as opposed to mental stability, truly separate the criminals & the civilians.


Currently, California has no laws that makes it illegal for one to witness a crime without at least notifying the authorities. They do have the "accessory" charge, but watching doesn't necessarily translate into "helping", as much as driving the car or signaling if someone approaches. Maybe they should implement such an ordinance. Granted, it wouldn't sit well with the boisterous "no snitching" ethos that shadows the inner-city, but life exists outside of the fabricated world of gangster politics & subversive criminal activity, so it is a possibilty.


The victim was rushed to a local hospital for her injuries, yet the mental scars of "multiple offenders, multiple people raping over [a] prolonged period" will still be fresh wounds even when stitches are removed & bruises disappear.


No shots, but very few things separate the human race from the rest of the animal kingdom. Judging by the news & urban legends, that line dwindles daily. At this rate, jail will literally be just another version of the zoo, if one doesn't consider it that already. That's not to say that all the dudes who ever experience jail are sub-human, but, again, you smell my cologne. We need to take "Love Thy Neighbor" a little more seriously, folks. If "we" don't like/trust the police, & the government is secretly plotting to destroy our shallow existences with hidden agendas & conspiracy theory actualities, than the least we can do, as a race, is watch each other's collective back. This isn't to say that everyone needs to don a cape & become hero's to anonymous prey, but super powers aren't needed to dial 911. How much of a douche nozzle are you really when you don't feel the incessant need to help keep another person safe? Although, I guess that's beyond douchery. That's more like evil, pathetic cowardice. Without dwelling too deep beneath the surface of societal ailment, there's always two sides to a story but usually only a singular outcome.


[tony's note: sorry for the lack of "comedy". i don't find anything funny about this bullshit.]

Calizonamexitexana (...now say it backwards)

My people, I'm back! California to Arizona to New Mexico to TEXAS to Louisiana.

&, wow...fuck a road trip. I won't even ever watch "National Lampoon's Vacation', or any movie kin to it again in this lifetime. I lived it. Dude, if the situation to travel cross-country arises, & the method of travel is a car (or van), do yourself the biggest favor & say no go, word to Hall & Oates. Actually, I'll say be hesitant & leary; make sure that you travel with like-minded individuals. There's nothing worse than being held captive in a vehicle, miles from home with a bunch of folk who don't understand you & probably don't like you much anyway. I speak from fresh experience.

My "fam" & I left L.A. for Shreveport, LA last Friday morn. We arrived that Saturday night. Easily the suckiest, most uncomfortable 30-something hour experience of my life. Shit, if it wasn't for my homies over at XXLmag.com, I might have thrown myself under the bus (or van), literally. But, I did enjoy Shreveport, though. It's a quaint, countryside city; a far cry from the horrible, war-torn pictures that Lil Wayne & C-Murder paint about their respective state with their abysmal *ahem* music. It could just be that I spent the majority of time around my wife's Louisianian family, with their daily home cooked meals & adorable ebonical speech. Me being a city boy & such, I thought the bigger the family, the bigger the ratio for convicts to mental illness. Imagine my surprise when I meet people who genuinely spent time with each other doing nothing at all because they chose to, as opposed to a few uncles on house arrest & some cousins who can't leave the house because "the streets is watchin'". My wife's Grandma, who was the reason for the trip, is the coolest, nicest lady in the world. She's what a seventy-something year old Black women should be, rather than Tyler Perry's uberpopular homoerotic manifestations, seething with self-hate & ignorance. No shots at today's Black women, but you gals can only hope to eventually become that type of matriarch. Nah, fuck that, shots fired! Black girls (who become women, sort of) are in a state of emergency; lemmings diving off the cliff of practicality into pits of certain doom at breakneck speed. & most are either too stupid, too proud or too busy chasing children & various types of checks to see what lies ahead. I would feel sorry for said Black women, if I wasn't so put-off by their shitty attitudes & lack of self respect. There are exceptions though, & you know who you are.

Anyways...

I spent a week trolling around town, trying my hardest to look like I'm from Los Angeles & still blend in simultaneously. If you know about Lewzanna, you know light skins are a dime a dozen, so 50% of the time, I fit in perfect with the homegrown Creoles, or "Geechies" as their refered to by the older crowd. But the other half of the time, gold teeth & dreads were noticeably absent from my person, which had your boy sticking out like a nipple ring through a bra-less wife-beater. I'm calling niggas "bruh" & "dude", which had to be some sort of dead giveaway, what with their "fowkz" & "playaz" & the occasional "shawty". One could also assume that, because none of my clothing had dollar signs plastered across it, or an "LSU" insignia, I probably didn't buy my clothes from the same swap meets that they did. I didn't see one pair of True Religion's or Ed Hardy's. Except what I was wearing. But I saw lots of Dickies. Whole suits, like niggas got them tailor-made in every color imaginable. With fedoras & cowboy hats & drivers caps & doo-rags, etc. We went to church & the preacher had on a Dicki-nah, I'm bullshitting. But, he had gold teeth though.
[tony's note: i'm joking. in actuality, the methodist church we attended had a lovely female pastor. service that day consisted of prayer & communion. unfortunately, no "down home" fire & brimstone heathen hate. guess we chose the wrong sunday.] At the risk of sounding tourist-y, the landscapes were breath-taking. Even the dilapadated houses appeared regal; rife with history & a story to tell. & the state is covered with moisture & lush greenery; I hadn't seen that much water & trees since my uncle stopped selling dope.

Black people in major cities always seem to have hidden agendas. There's always crab's that need to be pulled back down to the bottom of the barrel. But, out there, it seemed like all the crawfish (as opposed to regular old crabs), or mud-bugs, were comfortably resting where they may, waving at strangers & kindly smiling at one another. It was quite beautiful. Me being born & raised in Los Angeles, a nigga smiling at you means he's about to rob you, he's with the cat who's about to rob you, or he's about ask you for your phone number. My apprehension withered away though, as the days passed & I realized that this was just a laid-back, relaxed city amongst a country of contrite narcissists & ego-maniacal know-it-all's. Right, wrong or indifferent, folks in Louisiana were just chillin'. Can't be mad at that at all.

Normally, unfamiliar surroundings automatically activate my pretension, like some time-release, douche nozzle, anti-personality pill. But, it never went off down there. Maybe because I was too busy hoping a tornado didn't rip through our parrish. Or was preoccupied with slapping big-ass mosquitos away from my ears & mustache. I mean, BIG-ASS mosquitos. I can only imagine what their roaches must look like. Like shiny-ass hamsters that probably run as fast as a three year old.

As for the music, I didn't get to hear much, but when the occasional hooligan drove past, he was playing 'Gucci Mane'. Not that the guy's an exceptional lyricist; on the contrary. Dude's as basic as you can get, topic-wise. Lyrically, he blows [||]. Wack juice must stain his sheets when he sleeps on his back. Definitely not what one would get an earful of in the City of Angels, but don't tell him that. For what it's worth, I'd rather hear my son freestyling to a beat from 'Mario Kart'. No really, my son can actually bust a rhyme or two. Gucci, nah. No Dice. But God bless his gold-toothed heart for trying.

All-in-all, I don't have too much to say bad about Louisiana. Even the police are pretty down to Earth. You'd never catch a cop in a big city like Los Angeles texting while on duty (no dry snitching). L.A. cops are too busy racially profiling coloreds & looking for the next young nigga (or ese) to shoot in the back. You know, doing their job. But, I guess when every other person isn't potentially wanted for attempted murder, there's more time to chillax like normal folk. Don't get me wrong; there were a couple of shootings not too far from where we were. It's not like niggas are down there trying to rekindle the civil rights movement or anything. If a group of people were marching, it was most likely to Sam's Seafood. If you're ever in Shreveport, do your mouth a favor [||], & indulge in some of their delicious cuisine. It'll make your tongue slap your brains out.

Perhaps the most, umm, slighty hypocritical facet of the "down south" experience was the amount of love swirls I saw. See, in Los Angeles, it's not uncommon to see people paired up in a variety of unnatural ways. Black/white, girl/girl, sickly/obese, etc. But for all of America's southern racist complexities, I didn't expect so many bi-racial couples. I saw a nappy head Hip-Hopster & a blue-eyed (yet well-endowed) she-devil making out under trees where I'm virtually positive an ancestor of his was hung from at some point in the state's history. But, it didn't faze him. I had the urge to yell out, "Obama for life", but decided against it. Now, if dude were smart, he'd use that race card throughout the entire relationship, making her his sympathetic, guilt-stricken slave. Reparations, per se. Nothing says "40 acres & a mule" like brand new Jordans & a PS3 from a white chick who you've convinced is related to your Great grandfather's owner. & If he were even smarter, he'd break out the sex-whip during Black History month. Just saying...
Eventually, the time came to head back home. Ugh. Piling back into the dreaded van I'd grown to hate a week before, I asked Jehovah to once again grant us safe passage through America's dangerous highways. The irony of that prayer is that as soon as we pulled off of the 10 freeway onto Normandie Avenue, we barely avoided an accident. I guess I should've expanded the prayer a little, to include "all the way to our front porch", or something. For the most part, fuck Los Angeles & all the asshole denizens I share it with. But, there's no place like home. Really though.


**HONORABLE MENTIONS**

I met what may have been the oldest living white dude at a Texas truck stop. & he seemed as intrigued to talk to me as I was to him...

The outskirts of New Mexico at 2:30 am is colder than a vampire's vajayjay. Not only was I the only Black man at that truck stop, but I was the only guy wearing a jacket. Go figure...

Skunks really stink. Like in the cartoons, when they have radiation waves of ass funk emanating from their body's. Yeah, that shit is for real dude...

The cemeteries in Louisiana are so God-awfully close to the homes that no one can convince me that those folk's ain't living on top of dead people...

Monster energy drink + truck stop black coffee + blood pressure medicine = what the halfway mark of a crack high must feel like...

Shouts out to Tricie, Feewee, Collin, & Sean for making us feel at home...

Free Dr. Murray!

I'm pretty sick of hearing about Michael Jackson. I thought the whole point of Death was rest, or "sleep" as it's referred to in the Bible. If there is any relaxation in expiration, Mike's seeing no parts of it. What was the point of an effing funeral if the media just continues to parade his corpse around like pictures of Star Jones after her Lap Band surgery? I wouldn't be surprised if him, Tupac Shakur & Bruce Lee were sipping Pina Colada's on some island, stuffing hundred dollar bills into the coconut bra's of some exotic belly dancers. I'd give my big toe to be a fruit fly on that palm tree.

Anyway...

Dr. Murray, a/k/a Dr. Death (I know, right?) is basically being called a murderer, now that Mike Jack's death is officially a homicide. This newest leg of the witch hunt demands that someone be held responsible for the drug overdose that took the King of Pop from us. Now, all the doctor's who bragged about rubbing elbows with Jackson are wishing they hadn't, as they all are being thrown under the proverbial bus, one at a time. Celebrities by profession are now guilty by association. It's hard to feel sorry for multimillionaires, but God bless them all the same.

The main focus of media at the present is that they lay blame to someone. To me, thats a crock of dinosaur poo. I don't know about elite drug addiction, but I know about addiction, which in the grand scheme of things is the same mechanism. I'm no insider or gossip-heavy industry maverick, but I know exactly who to blame for his unintentional passing. Somebody needs to write me a check, & close the book on this one. Really though.

As most of you know, I'm an alcoholic. In recovery, but an alkie nonetheless. When I was checked into the hospital last year, for a veritable grocery list of ailments, the first thing my mother did was pray. Second thing, look for someone to blame. She gave my wife such a hard time that had I been in decent shape, I would've cursed her like we'd never met. I didn't appreciate that, for all the support my wife had given me through peaks & valleys, here's my mother blaming HER for ME almost committing suicide. No Dice.

No one made me drink. I don't care who handed me monies, or brought liquor to my house, or picked me up to go hang; nobody made me do shit. I chose to drink for breakfast, lunch & dinner. Daily. Weekly. Monthly. Yearly. Sure, some can call not stopping me "enabling", but fuck your psycho-babble jargon. Tony does what Tony wants, which is a 33 year old habit. So, when I detoxed & truly sobered up, I vocally took full blame for my misfortune. What kind of douche would say that their stupidity is someone else's responsibility? Rhetorical question.

My point is, for all the circle-running that people are doing, they continuously overlook the fact that Michael decided, in his own warped, fragile little mind, that what he needed was medication. & lots of it. Sure, the docs didn't have to supply it, but who likes being broke, whilst tons of cash are potentially an immoral phone call away? I don't blame Dr. Murray for seeing this as an opportunity to pay bills, eat food & have somewhere to sleep. Hell, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing. If Michael Jackson tells you to do something, you do it. Case in point; rumor has it that MJ made advances on Webster & Macauley Culkin. Look at their respective careers. They should've let Mike do whatever it was he wanted to do to them, & maybe you guys wouldn't be thinking, "who the hell is he talking about?". Catch my drift?

Homicide, no. Suicide, most definitely. If blame absolutely must find a target, paint a bull's eye on the back of Joseph Jackson's fancy sportscoat. Otherwise, Mike was addicted to drugs, & chose to indulge without seeking any help. However slow & calculated, Mike did it to himself, & there's no two ways around it. He was no saint, no angel, & 100% human. Capable of the same fallible, erroneous behaviors as the rest of us.

Rest In Peace, Mike, whenever they decide to let you...

When Keepin' It Real Goes Right

"Police have raided an apartment leased to rapper Jadakiss and seized 5 grams of heroin, 6.5 pounds of marijuana and $40,000 cash from the Yonkers New York residence, say published reports."-Allhiphop.com (8/25)

A man's gotta do, am I right? For the sake of conversation, because I don't really know, let's say that all that dope & money was indeed Jason Phillips'. From my minimal knowledge of street life, it sure as hell looks like dude is selling drugs to me. Perhaps if Heroin wasn't in the mix, it could be perceived as something more trivial. Now, all those clever lines he pens about bricks & stacks come across with a bit more believability. Not that that's a good thing; if I think that, God only knows what the Federali's are making of it.

Take into account that his label/group/business venture D-Block Records has been operating for years without much publicized success. Critical acclaim, maybe, but we all know that's just a tactful way to say "not really too successful". Even without much apparent revenue, they have their own recording home, stable of artists with needs, a car wash *wink-wink*, & continue to stay active in a business that thrives on the exchange of currency at a fairly rapid rate. & it's not like Def Jam is handing out millions of monies for artist's that can't crack 300,000 copies sold. No shots, though.

Could it be that this is all a front for drug dealing?

I'm sure most rappers lie about their lifestyles, but how many of those guys get busted with such a healthy amount of illegal product? The money itself isn't against the law, but it sure makes all those drugs look that much more interesting. It's one thing to make up stories, & claim to be involved in high level dealings on wax, but to have it plastered across newspapers kind of makes it official. Imagine how quickly 50 Cent would've back off of Rick Ross had he been pulled over with kilo's of Cocaine in the trunk of his $200,000 car.

If nothing else, Jada's street cred just skyrocketed. & he can thank his two dumb-ass friends/weed [& Heroin] holders ( who caught the cops' attention, subsequently leading them to the apartment) for that.

If we've learned anything about the Hip Hop police, it's that they lay in wait for opportunities like this. Prepare for a full-fledged investigation to be launched on D-Block Records, & anyone affiliated. & I wouldn't be surprised if that became a trend, a la Murder Inc., with other not-so-well-to-do labels become targets of FBI stings & impromptu tax audits. Between Death Row/G-Unit/Murder Inc, the last 10 or so years have kept the Hip Hop cops pretty busy turning over rocks & digging in niggas' backgrounds. It's not like they're out trying to find who killed Big L, Biggie, 'Pac, Souljah Slim or Mac Dre, so this would be right up their alleys.

Take Clipse, whose music is Crack Rap without apology. Their manager was arrested behind drug activity, & even then they were only guilty by association. So far, at least. It's not like they found dope ON them, per se. & according to the consensus, them cats been telling on themselves for about 3 albums now. But, this 'Kiss scenario takes "keepin' it real" to a next plateau, again, assuming all those things belonged to J-a-d-a in some way or another.

Hopefully, Jada didn't play a part in this situation, although it's not looking good. Shit rolls downhill; from his two jumpy buddies, to 'Kiss himself, to the whole D-Block organization. Not that he'd be throwing away a phenomenal rap career, but it would suck to be him right now. & If he's not guilty of assisting/contributing to the distribution of illegal substances, then he's damn sure guilty of keeping the wrong cats around him. But, that's a post for another day.

One has to wonder where Sheek Louch & Styles P stand in all of this. Say the two schmoes who started this fiasco decide to start singing the blues for the sake of lesser convictions. That would put 'Kiss in the precarious "Stop Snitchin'" position, if the rest of LOX are involved. I don't know a lot of cats, if any, who own one Sheek CD. I'm just saying. Styles signed that book deal, but what does that really mean in this computer-driven, "I ain't know nothin' 'bout no readin'" day & age. Word to Kanye West & Lil Wayne.

Dope-dealing is one of the few lifestyles that is as dangerous as it is glamorous, hence the entertainment industry's romantic fascination with it. My uncle succumbed to it's allure, then had 7 1/2 years to think about how he would have made manager at Burger King by now. District manager with the right attitude.

Let's see how this one plays out...

The 5 Minute Factor: part three

....Conclusion (I suggest you read part's one & two first. Trust me)....

Funny thing about haphazard behavior is that rarely do you cover your ass. You just jump head first into the situation, without weighing all possibilities &/or outcomes. Throughout this whole ordeal with *no dry-snitch*, while I'm being the protective older brother to an "armed & dangerous" criminal, I never once asked him what happened to the gun. I was so caught up in the Cloak 'N' Dagger experience, I'd forgotten why he started coming around me to begin with, those light years ago. No dad, no older brothers, uncle (by marriage) was a crack-head, mom only 15 years older than him; he was looking for someone who would be looking for him.

How did I forget to ask him about the fucking gun?

5 minutes became 5 hours. Nightfall became the next day, with no signs of *no dry-snitch*. All the members of the neighborhood goon squad were congregated at our meeting spot, my front porch, when I came outside that morning. Everybody looked at me, & I knew. Seems he, against my warning, decided to stroll through the neighborhood on his way to wherever. His thing was to show the world that he wasn't scared of anything, Pigs included. Once he made his rounds, gave some hugs & shook some hands, he headed to his destination.

What I didn't know was that this whole time, that same dirty gun was on him, always. Jacket pocket, back pack, under his big, dirty ass t-shirt, etc. He always said that valley dude's homies would find him before the cops did, but I've never been good at math, so I didn't put two & two together. That day he left, plain clothes cops were watching, & followed him to where he ended up. Upon leaving that house, they detained & questioned him, & after bumping him up for about a half an hour, a sergeant arrived & I.D.'d him. He had weed & the gun he used to murder another man. It turns out it wasn't a man at all, but another misguided teenager who watched too many movies growing up & was substantially ignored at home. Brothers from another mother, one might say.

That chicken head, the eye of this tragic storm, testified against *no dry-snitch*, & even though we all wrote letters to the court, the judge ultimately threw the book at him. *no dry-snitch* caught the book like a man, & carried it with him under the jail.

25 with an L. Epic fail.

That was a few years back. Now, he's just urban legend; neighborhood fodder used to scare kids straight & teach them about choices. We all know kids don't listen though.

Come to think of it, he used to read things that I wrote & tell me how good I was. Oh, how he'd love this...

The 5 Minute Factor: part one

How many murderers do you know personally? I know 2. Here's one......

I have a natural magnetism for certain types of people. Mostly the downtrodden. I'm not sure why God decided to give me such an arduous responsibility, but nonetheless, I've accepted it & use my powers for good. Sometimes I become frustrated with the amount of vagabonds & borderline homeless dudes I know, but what can I do? I feel entirely too blessed not to share what God gave me with others if I'm able to. It even talks about something like that in the Bible, word to Jesus Christ.

My young home boy, named *no dry-snitch* was a good kid who, unfortunately, had his eyes widened by the daily antics of the neighborhood supervillians. The gang-banging, dope-dealing, petty criminal activity that we all love to watch on a straight-to-video DVD or hear chronicled in a rap record. Shit is real in this field.

A boy in a man's body, who would spend half of his day following around my friends & I, like an annoying sibling or stray dog, & the other half around the corner with the local ruffians. Seems like that balance would work out in his favor if ever an extreme situation arose, but he (& I) found out that in a matter of 5 minutes, everything you've learned/adopted/believed in can be forgotten & forever lost.

If you know about Los Angeles, you know that every third person has a relative in Pomona, Victorville, The Valley, Ontario, Perris, etc. Those places just happen to be the "get my ass out of L.A." hotbeds. So, *no dry-snitch* had close family in The Valley, who he'd visit often. So much so that he'd met a girl out there. He was still young, so when he came home one day, talking fast & smiling, I knew he had genuine feelings for her, as opposed to good ol' Black lust. Lust, as in, he'd already had a daughter who he never saw, through no fault of his own, so to me, he saw this as a chance to do the whole girlfriend/boyfriend thing correctly.

From the day I'd meet him, he'd gone from decent, clean cut youth, to a misdemeanor-commiting menace to society. Complete with too much hair & gang tattoos. He came to me for advice a lot, which I rationed out to him, depending on how much weed he had, but the one real situation he needed guidance on, he turned to the supervillians.

It seemed that the valley girl already had a boyfriend. In most instances, "out-of-town" niggas detest L.A. dudes, & he was no exception. The fact that he was affiliated with the Eight Trey Gangsta Crip's made him an easier target for the boon dock thug-wanna be's. & now, he'd coveted on of their prized hood rats. Some nigga lost his future baby momma, & surely looked to avenge his loss.

The day came when the two young, Black males crossed paths, on the valley hooligan's home turf. Home court advantage, per se. But *no dry-snitch* wasn't a punk by any means & he held his ground. The two fought, & after what I can only assume was an ass-kicking, the valley boy ran away threatening further violence, in the way that only Black kids from the ghetto(s) can; he's going to be back "with his strap". Again, my young compadre wasn't afraid of much, so this, to him, was another nigga barking as he scurried away with tail tucked.

This wasn't his first foray into the ignorance that is gang violence stemmed from female. In Juvenile Hall, he'd gotten into a squabble behind some tender chick filet, & stabbed a fellow "inmate" in the thigh with a pencil. No stiches, no harm, no foul. As with most incarcerated young men, this only fueled his bloodlust towards the next opportunity to flex his masculinity.

So, 5 minutes later, valley dude returned, this time in a car. He stopped the car & exited. *no dry-snitch* said that he didn't seem to have a gun, but he wasn't looking for one, what with all the adrenaline surging through him. Valley guy walked over & began talking loudly, while the prized chicken head began to back away. *no dry-snitch* decided that he was going to swing first, connected with valley cat's jaw & knocked him to he ground. Immediately, he jumped back up & produced a handgun aimed right for *no dry-snitch*'s chest.

To be continued tomorrow....

Dedicated To My Friend

R.I.P. Damon Johnson

I lost a very close friend of mine Tuesday morning. He was struck by a car, attempting to cross the street. Said street is always full of a bunch of idiot drivers who are either A) drunk, B) haphazard or C) incompetent, like 85% of the rest of the world. But, for whatever reason, it was his time to die.

God bless his family. I will miss him, as much as a man can miss another man without needing a "no homo" at the end of the sentence. When you're a kid, friends come & go, but as an adult, when you consider someone a friend (as opposed to homie, buddy, potna, etc.), it really means something significant, well at least to me. & to lose that friend, is something that has to be dealt with on an adult level, i.e. realistically.

Death is an amazing thing, in that, you can compulsively prepare for it, do all you can to avoid it, yet do nothing at all to prevent it. That, to me, is uncomfortably hilarious. Case in point; Damon survived several gunshot wounds a few years back. Btw, several = four or more. Yet, he got through it, physically & mentally. He's been to the penitentiary a couple of times, & although he came home with the same state of mind he had after the shooting (shell-shocked), he got through it. Simultaneously the coolest & toughest person I'd met since I've become an adult. But, for all the tests God presented & Damon passed, this was a pop quiz without a cheat sheet.

The doctors tried to save him, but that wasn't in the cards. Within the hour of his
passing, the whole neighborhood was outside, walking around, hugging, dapping, smoking weed in memoriam, & drinking alcohol as they sat in awe. There's even a makeshift tribute to him on the corner that the ambulance took him from. I wonder did he realize that this would be his last time ever leaving the hood?

Sooner than later, we'll have his funeral, & all of us will have a chance to tell him "Peace Out" for the final time. After that, we'll come home, laugh at his silly antics, regret any arguments & disagreements, part ways & continue to live our lives, until the next time death rears it's insidious head.

The last time I saw him was Saturday morning. He was flirting with a bus driver. Kool-aid smile & all. The last time my friend Tone saw him was as he tried to stand back up after the vehicle knocked him down. Then, the paramedics arrived.

Y'all be cool & careful out there. Tomorrow isn't promised, & don't forget that.

Talk Is (Not) Cheap

Some douche nozzle rap dude named Brisco (who?) got robbed a few days ago. He was at a "local" barbershop, somewhere in Florida, when 4 masked men rushed into the establishment, fired a few rounds & relieved him of roughly $40,000 worth of cash & jewelry, & took the keys to his leased Range Rover after (supposedly) pistol whipping him. No more than 2 days later, the rapper releases a song aimed at the criminals, saying that there's now a bounty on them for acts committed.

Fucking idiot.

First of all, the guys had him in the ultimate position of submission (i.e. at gunpoint), & for all intents & purposes could've bodied him right there, just off the strength of green-eyed monsters & hatred. So, how does he pay them back for ONLY taking some material possessions & not his life or his manhood? By threatening their lives, in a "song" for the whole world to hear. After the police were notified, that is. So, not only will his threats fall on the ears of these random, obviously blood thirsty jackals who he probably can't identify in a police line-up, but if something necessarily negative were to happen to the goons, he'll be the first one the authorities contact.

Not to say one should ever be appreciative for being robbed, but I've been robbed before. At gunpoint. I was grateful that the nigga didn't get all LAPD on me. If (& when) ever I find myself at the business end of a handgun, & happen to survive the ordeal, pride is the only thing that stops me from telling the dude "Good lookin' out on not cappin' me, bro". What Brisco did is the equivalent of "na-nanny-na-naa", with a twist of "watch ya back, bitches!". Silly me, I stopped teasing bullies when they graduated to felonious activity.

Fucking idiot.

[tony's note: slick rick NEVER got robbed. just saying.]

In the same vein, rapper Joe Budden has been beefing with quite a few dudes this year. Yeah, you may not have heard of this rapper either. His last foray into the "beef" department was with a more legendary MC named Method Man. Sans the underwhelming details of the root cause of conflict, they had choice words over the last couple of months. At which point, members of Meth's entourage (Wu Tang Clan) decided they'd had enough of this guy disrespecting their brother. Now, here's the tricky part....

The confusion between Joe & Meth was supposedly quelled 2 weeks ago, at a concert series known as "Rock The Bells". Although by now, several other Wu-affiliates had taken up residence on Joe's back. But, after the truce was declared, Joe Budden pulled one of those sneak disses; second cousin to the Backhanded Compliment. Something to the effect of, "& the next nigga who say something, I won't be so nice".

Funny how some dudes just refuse to leave well enough alone.

This weekend (Saturday, August 8), at an extension of the same RTB venue, Joe's words finally caught up with him. Raekwon, one of Method's group members, who entered the "beef" to assist him, had a guy, who knew a guy, who brought a guy to the concert, & said guy punched Budden's in the face. Live on the 'Nets, for all who saw to see. What will come of this, who knows. But, I doubt it will escalate too much more. In most cases, a swift jab to the side of the head clears up any misconceptions. Word to Joe Budden. Then again, these rap cats avail themselves to such a distorted view of reality, anything's possible. I predict the Youtube/WorldStarHipHop onslaught is beginning as you read this.

Now, I don't bite my tongue too often because it hurts, so I can empathize wholeheartedly, but at some point, silence is just the wisest option. & not to sound like a bitter, anti-climactic antagonist, but what is it about being a rapper that makes one assume that every life-situation is a cock-measuring contest? If Brisco so happens to be discovered in some swamp with a bullet hole in his temple & his silk Versace boxers stuffed into his mouth, society will blame Hip Hop. Not the dumb decision making of one peacock, but the entire movement will be (once again) thrown under the (tour) bus. Same with Joe. If he allows his ego to return fire on whoever he deems opposition, again, Hip Hop will be the reason for the violence. As opposed to blaming the overgrown crybaby, who some dude(s) finally decided deserved his proverbial spanking. Nothing says 'you're talking too much' like being blindsided with a haymaker.

"Mouth almighty, tongue everlastin', Ya ain't satisfied until somethin' happens...." - (c) Whodini, "Big Mouth"

"the horsemen"

*Shout out to my dude Denske a/k/a Culture. He inspired me to write this drop for his site www.bbcult.com, after a brief convo we had about the Lo-Life movement's impact on the West Coast. Check him out, they active over there.*

------

I've always dug New York dudes.

I think deep down, most Cali cats do. There's just something about the symbiotic polarization between the two that one would have no choice but to find the other intriguing. Those who are/have been a part of this Hip Hop culture (as opposed to just spectating) would agree that the present day West Coast influence that eventually invaded NY is the grandson of the NY influence that affected the West in the 90's. It was that brief vacation that Gang-Banging took, around the Golden Era of our beloved culture. For real, back then, a lot of L.A. niggas wanted to be East Coast cats. Just ask Xzibit.

In 1993, me & my crew were called "The Horsemen", because of the Ralph Lauren Polo logo, of course. All we did was sit at my dude's spot, blaze philly's & listen to NaS, Mobb Deep, Wu & anything else that was hot on the East or affiliated with those dudes. Ice Cube had already made it okay to fuck with the East Coast through "Amerikkka's Most Wanted", so that made it even cooler. Y'all youngsters do know nothing about pre-Eminem Hip Hop. Shit, you couldn't tell me anybody was nicer than Royal Flush & Mic Geranimo back then. We faced ridicule, mockery, even a couple of fights. But we ain't care. These niggas wasn't up on the level of fly that we had ascertained. Camy cargo shorts, unlaced Timbs, any kick Nike dropped that everybody wasn't rocking, football jerseys, fitted hats, backpacks, baggy jeans, & more importantly, all the Polo we could afford (to steal). Those other cats had no idea. They could keep their creased Dickies, Levi's & Converse. Perhaps it was fate, but we even met some NY/Cali transplants who further schooled us on the art of New York City (RIP ReeRee).

We'd heard tales of a similar crew from NY, who we had heard about previously through all the East Coast culture we immersed ourselves in. They were called the Lo-Lifes. We admired what they were about; Ralph Lauren, & being fly no matter what. Even if it meant violence &/or jail time. How gangsta is that? They were before our time, but the same ethos still applied.

My high school was L.A.'s infamous Westchester High (alum includes Regina King & Trevor Ariza). Home of the pretty boys (shout out to 2CMob). It was mandatory that we stayed dipped. The rest of the crew went to Inglewood High (alum includes Paul Pierce). Same rules applied there, except they weren't as pretty as us Comets.

While cats out East were boosting, we were racking. We were already experts at petty theft, since we all tagged together since 9th grade anyway. From Pilots to Mean Streaks to Krylon cans, we stayed picking something up. It was this little mom & pop hardware store by the Fox Hills Mall, where dude was either stupid, scared or a touch of both, but they stayed getting got.

Wes/Disom was from the notorious K(ings)W(ith)S(tyle). So, by association, we were Dubs as well. Once taggers started to emulate the gang-bang lifestyle though, we knew we had outgrown riding grill on the RTD & etching office building windows. The Nothing But Trouble Gang was anybody killa's, & they hated anything associated with a K-Dub. I wasn't trying to catch a slug over hitting' up a bus bench.

Me, Wes, C-Piece, Joshy, Skulli, Dundee & any given spot filler would plan our attacks on a friday night, over 40's, stale weed & beedies for the following Saturday morn. Nordstroms at the South Bay Galleria was our spot. 4 exits & an escalator. Them motherfuckers wasn't catching us! Back then, out in L.A. at least, the upper-scale stores didn't want to bog you down with sensor tags. They figured that young black kids knew better than to come into their stores. Ha! As if. Customer service-minded idiots.

We would stock up on the Polo pull overs, layer up on some khakis & jeans & whoever had the biggest jacket or the quickest legs that day would grab an arm-full of rugby's & break to the '89 Ford Bronco II waiting in the parking lot. Sometimes, we'd grab some Faconnable, Girbaud or Lucky Brand on the way out just because the displays were so neat. Until one day, a security guard got the license plate & informed the Torrance PD about our hustle. After a few hassles from the pig patrol, we know the jig was up. There, anyways. That's when we expanded to Macy's in the Del Amo, which was just as easy but not as exquisite as Nordstroms. Too much security, though. C-Piece got caught once, & his Moms had to go & get him from mall-jail. Dumb ass rent-a-cops never even checked the shirt he was wearing. The nigga STILL came home holding something.

We carried on for about 2 years, staying fresher than the duck sauce niggas who waited on their parents' paychecks & tax returns. We never got caught with too much, but we sure had our fair share of foot chases, which as any 'Lo Head knows, ain't easy in a pair of deck shoes on freshly waxed linoleum.

Once we graduated, cats got jobs & just started buying their clothes, except for Wes. This cat got hired at a Ross in Hollywood, & we'd go pick him up & eventually began to help ourselves while we waited. Needless to say, Ross' Polo is nowhere near Nordstroms', so it wasn't worth the risk, not as grown ass men.

I don't even talk to those dudes anymore like that. Long gone are those days. Occasionally I'll see one of them in traffic, but its nothing more than a 5 minute brag-fest about what our kids are up to. Never do we talk about how we lived the "real" hip hop life, during it's Golden Era. Stealing shit, taking drugs, drinking Old English 'til we threw up, defacing public & private property, the endless freestyle sessions. If we do talk about any one specific event, it's the time we snuck into the House of Blues in Hollywood to see Rae & Ghost perform. Sick. These niggas came out in darkness wearing miner's helmets, complete with working lights. A definite throwback to what it is nowadays. Hell, half the time I'm not even quite sure if the "Hip Hop" culture still even exists with these kids today. Or maybe I'm just getting old.
Sometimes I tell my son stories about growing up when it was okay to rebel against the system & shit. When everybody was scared to be the same, as opposed to looking clones & mini-them's on purpose.

Hopefully, I'm not filling his head with nonsense that he'll emulate. But, then again, I guess that wouldn't be so bad after all.

Courage (as taught to me by my 6 year old son)

My 6 year old son has had a very trying 2 weeks.

He's had a very serious cold, was diagnosed with Asthma, & learned about how it can compromise mortality, been on breathing machines, swallowed pills, gotten shots, rehearsed for his kindergarten graduation & dealt with all the regular curve balls life throws at a person.

For the entire duration of that time, I've been by his side, literally & physically. As usual. I wouldn't have it any other way.

There was a pinnacle moment at the doctor's office that I found somewhat amazing.

He had received 2 breathing treatments to help clear his lungs. After that, the doc decided that he needed a liquid medication to beef up the effort. They brought him a cup full of disgusting liquid, & he politely, yet sternly said, "I don't want that, it's nasty." The doctor attempted in her best "doctor knows best" voice to convince him that he should take it, otherwise he'd get a shot instead. Without missing a beat, dude said, "Gimme the shot" & looked at the doc as if he was thinking "G*ddamn right, I said that." She shrugged it off, & the accompanying nurse chimed in, siding with the doctor's advice.

My son didn't budge or blink.

"No, I can't take that stuff. It's nasty, I'll just take the shot please."

Another nurse walked in, & said "Okay, we'll just do it like this....." By now, knowing my boy, I could see that this was going to be a battle of wills. How dare this child challenge the authority of certified pediatricians? But, nonetheless, that's exactly what he did. I leaned back & watched how the situation was going to unfold.
The third, umm, more urban nurse decided that she'd administer the medication with one of those syringes that don't have a needle, like the ones used to give young babies their medicine orally.

Ha! No Dice. My son is by no definition a punk, or a quitter, so promptly, he spit the meds out onto that same, umm, urban nurse's uniform shirt.

Keep in mind, he told them from the gate to just give him the shot. Adults have this strange ability to think that kid's don't have their wits about them. Realistically, my kid's are a lot smarter than a healthy percentage of my adult friends.

So, out comes the needle, as a punishment I assume. He fought them a little because, like me, he doesn't appreciate unknown, overweight black woman touching him aggressively. She gave him the shot in the thigh, & he sat up & looked at the small blood spot. Without making eye contact, he said "I told you. You should've gave me the shot like I said"

I loved it. The gaggle of ladies picked up their faces from the linoleum & bid him a farewell. That, umm, urban nurse mumbled "Excuuu-uuse me".

Ha!

I teach my kids to meet a challenge with a challenge. Never take the easy way out. & a couple of other cliche's that could easily be taken from any of the Karate Kid trilogy. & they listen. I tell my daughter, "You're not a follower. You're a leader. Show them the back of your shoes at all times!" Imagine my delight when I heard her tell another kid that. Smiles for the day.

I think about the many situations I've experienced that the skill he displayed in that office could've changed my life. True, I probably wouldn't be the same person with a good life, but then again, who knows what direction I might have taken. Point being, by the time we go from being those brutally honest toddlers to adults so content on living in a world of deception & self-doubt, it's too late to recapture that tenacity. Words like "no" & "I'd rather not" get overshadowed by a willingness to please all the people all the time. Why do we do this?

Because life sucks, & nobody bothered to tell us that between teaching us to tie our shoes & bless our food before we eat. Grown ups, as a whole, aren't all that smart, per se. We've just somewhat mastered the art of survival. Not a "lost in the jungle" survival, but a "Hey, whatever works." tactic that's leaves us vulnerable to the quills of reality.

Kids are smart, if only because they're ignorant to the politics of life. No guessing games, no confusion, no gimmicks. They tell it like it without being weighted down by silly emotions like guilt, jealously, envy, hate & all the ones in between.

Books are good, movies are great, but if ever there's a time that an adult needs to be re-grounded, just have a genuine conversation with a child.

You'll be surprised how much more about life they know than we give them credit for.

The Back Road to Redemption

So, T.I., convict-turned-rapper-turned-convict, has turned himself in to Arkansas authorities to began his year-ish sentence yesterday, for gun charges. There's been a lot of clamor as to the specifics of his case, including snitching & judge/jury tampering, but that's neither here nor there at this point. & this point is, incarceration. He's locked up. Truthfully speaking, he shouldn't have a hard time in the bing. He's been there quite a few times that the public is aware of, & who knows about the trips to Juvenile Detention Hall, which I'm sure are just as numerous. No Judgment, I'm just saying. Don't get me wrong, I like his music somewhat, but seriously, that dude is a criminal.

Now, I know some criminals, & a handful of convicted felons. In fact, a healthy percentage of my immediate family is well versed on their "vacation" time. I'm very familiar with their way of life, & there's nothing "civilian" about it.

True story, a buddy of mine would come through all the time & hang out at the pad. He's never admitted it, but I believe he's killed at least once. & I'm not talking cockroaches or spiders. One day, the lock on my security door was broken. The only way in/out of the house was the back door. Its not a long walk around my meager abode, granted you're not morbidly obese & a cheeseburger away from cardiac arrest. But, my dude was in good shape, possibly from fleeing crime scenes so often. Joke. He came to the front door, & I informed him that the door was "locked" & that he had to come through the back door to get in. He said, "Bring me your tool bag". I took it outside, around the house, all appreciative that he was willing to help me out, but as he handy-man'd his way to fixing my lock, he went on & on about how he's spent so many years of his life locked inside, that he refuses to come inside my spot unless he can leave on his own terms. It was pathetically hilarious. Hours later, he fixed my door. All he asked for in return was some cigarettes. I offered him some beer, but in hindsight, I realized that he declined my offer because it would have violated his parole. & in other news, he's currently serving 7 years for robbery & ag. assault.

Point is, hardened criminals live in another world than us regular folks. Its not good or bad, it's just very different than mine.

We've all seen the hoopla following T.I. for about the last year or so. He's been building up to his prison time in a variety of ways. Talk shows appearances, speaking at public schools, participating in rallies, that reality show, urging the youth to get involved with politics, basically trying to prove to America (& maybe himself) that he's turned a new leaf in life. Actually, I couldn't care less, but God bless his efforts. The last two things he's done have caught me off guard though;

He's performed a string of concerts loosely called his "Goodbye" or "Farewell" tour. Okay. One year doesn't garner a "farewell", unless a psychic told him he's going to get shived in the lunch line. & what self-respecting convict wouldn't want to have "stabbed T.I. for his macaroni" on his list of greatest accomplishments. Is it that he's playing on the public's love/hate towards him? I would hate to think that after all the positivity exuded from his reality show "Road to Redemption" that he's now throwing himself a week-long party to celebrate getting yet another strike on his permanent record. That just seems odd to me. Like in those mobster movies, where they throw "the kid" some type of schindig for being arrested. Seems like the wrong message to send to the millions(!!) of kids who obviously bought his album. Like it or not, serving time for a crime should be an embarrassing, shameful experience. Not one to jump around on stage for, like this is the last time he'll ever be seen by mankind again.

But, he does have a bunch of kids, so maybe he's just trying to stay ahead of the Georgia court system. Maybe.

Which takes me to the next point, that he finally married his long time babymomma Tiny, uh, whatever her real name is. She's the light-skinned, big-headed girl from Xscape. If you're younger than 21, you may want to google them.

I'm not even sure how many kids they have, but I know it's plural. Now, if marriage was so important, why wait until its time to be surrounded by men to profess his love? Does he, being a criminal, know something that we, being civilians, don't know? Was this his way of showing her that he's going to remain faithful on the inside? I doubt a wedding band will stop a horny, aggressive man from having his way with a shower-drenched Clifford, & from what I hear girls say, he's not bad looking.

If I were her, I'd wonder why all of the sudden must we be man & wife, when all this time it was dude & babymomma? I know all women want to be wed, but sometimes, you've got to question motives. Maybe there's an honor system that frowns on raping a married man? Highly doubtful. Then again, it may have been his idea; who knows what kind of promiscuous freak she may be. That $1000.00 dildo might not cut it. Again, No Judgment, I'm just saying. He's not the only rapper in Atlanta.

There should be a reality show that follows dudes around during the period leading up to the day they turn themselves in. Most of the cats I know usually end up going straight from the courtroom though. Just enough time to blow a kiss at their mom's, & be escorted into the Beast's belly. Then again, I guess that show would suck. Everybody can't be OJ or Clifford.

Let's just hope & pray that, at least for his kids' sake, that this situation is more rehabilitation, & less incarceration. Some folks actually do get locked up & learn their lesson(s). Not that I know any of them personally. No Judgment, I'm just saying.

Death & a German soldier

My Grand Dad fought in WWII. Pretty cool, huh?

I would get bits & pieces of stories growing up, but he never got too graphic. How could he? He was too busy telling me how my earring made me look like a little girl & that my hat looked "stupid" backwards.
He died when I was about 13, from lung cancer. He was definitely an Army dude; even after he was diagnosed & they started him on all the necessary treatments, he still smoked. The last picture of him I had was on my 13th Bday. Smoking one of his uppity, skinny, douche bag cigarettes on the couch. Stubborn until the day he passed away in his bed;

One day my Mom came home early from work. She didn't like being home much when I was a kid, so when I heard her coming up the back steps in the middle of the day, I knew something was wrong. The look in her eyes confirmed my suspicion. She didn't say much, although she didn't say much to me anyway, so that wasn't anything unusual. However, I saw tears before she had the chance anyway.

"Damn".

I walked into my room, & in an odd act of grief, I changed my clothes. I had a USC pull over & my Grand Dad graduated from there. He was very proud of his alma mater, so I replaced my Black Bart t-shirt, out of respect, right before we left for my uncle's house.

When we got to my Dad's brother's house, my Grand Dad was in his bed, long passed away. I heard the adults whispering about how he was sort of smiling. I tried to see it, but No Dice. All I saw was my Grand Dad dead. No smiles, no grins, no type of personality whatsoever. If anything, I didn't see the same grimace from pain, so in hindsight he looked somewhat peaceful. Relaxed. More & more family gravitated to the house, & within a couple of hours, it seemed that all of my father's side of my family was crammed into my uncle's modest house. It turned into a party, & among all the grown folks reminiscing & children running about, small groups of relatives would check-in on my Grand Dad from time to time, as if he needed anything. If he were alive, he would have said "Everything I need is already here", granted he had a cigarette to complete the family gathering.

Eventually, the coroner was called, & they gathered the shell that was my Dad's Dad, & took him to the place that dead people go. That was the sad part. I'd never see him again. Funny but, out of all of the things I've forgotten throughout my years, some of which was very important, I've never forgotten his laugh, his smell, his voice & the plenty things he told me. I have a hard time remembering what I did last Thursday, but I can still feel my Grand Dad hug me. He bought me my first computer, first telescope, took me back & forth to junior high when I broke my leg & unbeknownst to me at the time, he'd been putting away money for me for when I graduated high school. I guess it's only right that my Dad is such a good GrandDad now.

Oh yeah, this was the point of my post. When he returned from the war, he'd brought my father a souvenir. It was a german pistol, a wallet chain & a knife. My Dad waited until I was an adult to show them to me. He said my Grand Dad & a german soldier had one of those one-on-one fight scenes acted out in "Saving Private Ryan", & obviously my Grand Dad won.

He killed the german soldier, & took his personal effects, just to drive home the point. I'm not sure there's any point left to prove to a man who one has just killed, but hey, those were different times. Then, when he returned to the States, he gave them to his son (my dad) in an ultimate show of "Your Dad's is no punk!". I could just imagine how a game of "My dad can kick your Dad's ass" would have gone;

"Oh yeah? My Dad murdered a man. & got paid for it, too".

"Okay, you win."

God Bless America & those who defend her honor.